Grace In The Confidence of Others
by Ultracape
Summary: Summary – Neal has to face his greatest challenge with out the tools of his trade. Warning: NON SLASH - This story uses profanity and has references to off screen sexual and child abuse.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar and am not making any money off of this.

Pairing: Neal/Peter Not Slash

Rated M for some foul language, violence and off screen abuse

Warning: This is unbetaed. A lot of gross, disgusting, gory stuff that would make any sane person sick and even I was losing my lunch writing it, but it's all off screen. (References to sexual and physical abuse of children.)

Please see the author's note at the end of the story.

Summary – When Neal is playing a con, pulling a heist or creating a forgery, he has all the confidence in the world. But when these tools are not an option the only thing he has to save himself and the lives of others is something he's not too sure of at all, his own self worth.

Grace in the con fidence of others

Chapter 1/7

By Ultracape

They hung in almost every office, were tacked on nearly all the peg boards and some having been enthusiastically signed with a flourish by the grinning artist were framed and brought home and displayed in places of honor. There were few in the F.B.I.'s White Collar Crime Division who had not yet felt graced with a Neal Caffery original sketch.

It was the easiest con he'd every pulled, even if it was totally unintentional, and nothing to be proud of. As far as Neal was concerned if they were foolish enough to think his creations were any good he'd brag about his talent and play along. Then maybe he would not be the first one people looked to when something went missing in the office. Maybe he could get through a day feeling like his honest work meant something.

Even when he put his life on the line, something that happened with increasing frequency it seemed, it was not his word people trusted, it was his tracking anklet and the ever present threat of prison for the slightest infraction of what he felt were arbitrary and inconvenient rules, just begging to be broken for a good or even not so good cause.

The thing was, while it was rare for Neal to find any task difficult, when he did face difficulty, he did not have the experience to work it through. Fitting in, being accepted; playing by the rules eluded him, frustrated him and turned every day into a struggle to achieve what seemed to come so easily to others.

Gaining people's respect and trust in a persona for a con, for a heist, for the space of no more than a few weeks, was easy, especially for a man of Neal's brilliance. But earning the trust of others with nothing to show for his life but a list of alleged crimes, one conviction and a prison term was a greater challenge than he'd ever faced.

None but Neal's handler, partner and friend, F.B.I. Special Agent Peter Burke, could see through the armor of his fashionable suits, his charming veneer, his eagerness to be helpful, his know it all (because he did) attitude and his wit and puppy dog eyes to the troubled, childlike soul, the person who thought of himself as worth less than his doodles.

Now, just months since his girlfriend, Kate, had been killed, Neal's self-confidence was at an all time low. As far as Neal was concerned, the murder of his lady love, had been the final blow showing him that no matter what he did, what he accomplished, he was worth nothing, just some tool to be used by whoever needed his considerable criminal talents.

If trading his life for a hostage was needed it was no problem, and good riddance if said trade ended in his death. Thievery and coercion were against the law except if some mysterious uber-leader wanted to maneuver Neal into steeling something that supposedly didn't exist from a foreign government. But once Neal accomplished the deed, blowing him up was a convenient way to get rid of his inconvenient presence. And just for fun, pining a crime on him to cover up someone else's misdeeds was no big deal. As far as everyone was concerned, Neal deserved to be in prison, or dead.

Fine, he got the message. He was free as long as they could use him and his choices were prison or death and Neal did not want to go back to prison. Maybe this early morning meeting with Peter would lead to a means to an end. His experience as a consultant for the F.B.I. showed him how easy it was to step in front of a bullet even when he wasn't trying.

Having arrived early, Neal took out his small sketch pad he always kept with him to occupy his time. As usual, his thoughts drifted off to Kate and flashes of their life together, always ending with the explosion that took her from him. It was just that burst of brightness, this time from the sun angling its rays against a building and reflecting suddenly onto his face that he became aware he was staring out at the clear day, the tall glass monoliths sparkling in the morning light. He was halfway done before he even realized he was sketching the cityscape, somehow, even in black and white, capturing the brilliance of sparkling buildings, giving them a vitality unseen by passersby. His back to the door, Neal was so focused on his work that he did not notice the two men, one carrying a file, who walked into the room until one of them gasped.

"Oh my G-d, Peter!"

Neal practically jumped out of his seat dropping his pad and pencil on the table at the exclamation.

Peter smiled, almost like a proud father as he guided the other man forward. As tall as Peter if not as muscular, sporting blond, nearly white close cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard, the stranger could not take his eyes off of Neal's sketch. "Neal, this is an old friend of mine, Raleigh Elliott." Turning towards the other man, Peter completed the introductions, "Raleigh, I have the pleasure of introducing you to our art consultant and my friend, Neal Caffery. You can see for yourself, I did not exaggerate."

Elliott asked permission to pick up the sketch, which Neal gave with a gracious wave of his hand and a nod. "This is an amazing technique. You're use of space seems presents almost like another color yet its black and white. The strokes and angle of the lines are unique. Mr. Caffery, I am awed.

Neal reached out his hand to Elliott who took Neal's hand in a warm two fisted grip and shook it so firmly Neal's entire body vibrated with the force. "Peter's praise of your work barely does it justice. It's an extreme honor to meet you." Now it was Neal's turn to be dumbfounded. His eyes left Elliott and went straight to Peter.

Not since he studied art had Neal ever been praised for his work by someone who actually understood the difference between an original and a copy or had any understanding of what he created. Even those who had flattered his art on this side of the law had ever before thought it was an honor to meet him.

"Pleased to meet you," he smiled, too charmed himself by the man's manner to be anything less than honest in his greeting. "You've got quite a grip there Mr. Elliott," he winced and finally got his hand back and surreptitiously rubbed circulation back into his fingers. He graced the man with his usual brilliant smile. "Please call me Neal. Ah, how do you know Peter, if I may ask?"

"Neal, Raleigh and I went to Yale Law School and through training at Quantico together. He's my opposite number at the Civil Rights Division dealing primarily with Color of Law crimes."

"Peter," Neal motioned him to step away for a moment and grabbed his arm to follow. "Color of Law?" Neal repeated in a whisper with a touch of panic, "Peter, law has a color?"

Peter chortled and led him back, "And you were supposed to be a master forger?"

Neal's eyes widened, "I don't know what color law is,"

"I'm not surprised."

"Peter, if I don't know what it is how could I possibly copy it.?"

Peter took pity, "Relax Neal, he's not here to talk to you about any,'' and he emphasized the word, "alleged crime, or a case for that matter. But I guarantee you; he's got you dead to rights for what he does want to talk to you about."

"Peter, no, I…"he waved his hands signaling.

Peter cut him off, "Why don't we all sit? This might take a while."

Neal was more puzzled than ever and just a touch panicked, as per his musings, going back to prison was not a viable choice. As Peter moved to get coffee for everyone, Elliott opened the file and took out photos of murals which were done of fairytales, famous historic events and family life scenes, all of them aimed for a child's interest.

"Have you ever heard of Victor Trent?" asked Elliott.

Surprised at the direction this was going, Neal spread the photos out on the table, examining the scenes. "Uh, yeah, sure, he was an Austrian born artist who immigrated to the United States around a century ago." Seeing the approving expression on Elliott's face he continued in his usual self assured style whenever he had knowledge to impart. "He did quite a few murals in municipal buildings and government structures during the 1930s and forties. These look like they could have been his work but the colors are all off, faded and somehow stained. There's definitely some damage, actually a lot of damage."

"I told you," Peter smiled putting steaming mugs of coffee in front of both men and turning back to get his own.

"Neal I live in a hamlet about 15 miles northwest of Manhattan. There's a state psychiatric hospital there, which also houses a children's hospital and an institute for the study and treatment of the criminally insane. The state down sized the property about 20 years ago and sold the excess land, including the buildings on it to the town. It had been a vast complex and many of the buildings were abandoned for years before the sale. They've all fallen into disrepair and most are due to be demolished.

"Two of those buildings are architecturally unique. One, the former children's dormitory and school for the long term patients and the other a children's hospital, have several rooms that were decorated by Trent. Those photos were taken by a community group that I chair. We've been working to save the buildings by having them restored and put to use again. One would be to house children who have been removed from their parents' custody by the courts, and are in need of specialized treatment. The other would be for a school for the children. However we've run into a problem."

Neal looked from Elliott to Peter, who nodded and back to Elliott. Peter knew that Neal had always been a charitable man, even if it had at times been with other people's money. He also knew why such a project would touch Neal personally so he wasn't surprised to hear Neal ask what he could do.

"As you can imagine, Trent's murals had suffered from the exposure to the elements, among other things. They were painted directly onto the surface of the ceilings and walls so we can't remove them without removing the supporting structures. We tried to save them but even if we had the funds to remove and restore them, there would be no place to store them or display them. When remediation work began six months ago, reluctantly the murals were destroyed.

"We want to have original murals painted in those buildings which recreate the themes in a contemporary style but reminiscent of Trent. We need an art expert, art historian and artist who could guide us as to what settings, stories and activities would be appropriate, the best style to use and then ultimately do the work. I was telling Peter about this and he suggested I speak to you."

Neal could barely believe that Elliott was interested in his artistic skills, and not for forging or coping but for something original. Neal knew that only artists of national renown ever got commissions like this. He was awestruck. "I, I don't know what to say," Neal looked questioningly at Peter. "You must know that there are some, ah, complications."

Though he'd been offered freedom by OPR the work required of him would not only take him from the life he'd been building for himself, but sounded too much like the life that had gotten him thrown in prison in the first place. Peter kept talking about it as going over to the dark side, and selling his soul. It sounded exactly like Mozzie's description of his present position. Mozzie called it jumping from the fire into the furnace.

Until he made a decision, there was still a question about the level of restriction he had to suffer. For all intents and purposes, Neal was still on probation. Though Fowler had gotten him legally released, as long as he worked in the White Collar Division, he still had to wear the tracking anklet, restricting him to a two mile radius of his loft unless he was working with Peter.

"If you agree, I believe we can deal with any complications," Peter said as if reading Neal's mind.

"There is just one thing," Elliott looked even more nervous, if that were possible. "We have been able to obtain a small amount of federal grant money but according to the terms of the funding, it can only be used for materials, not labor. We don't have the money to pay you for your work, but Peter made a suggestion that he said you'd appreciate more than money and it's something that I think I can arrange."

There was only one thing Neal had ever wanted more than cash, and she was gone forever.

"What would that be?" he eyed Peter.

Peter's grin got wider, if that were possible, "Seeing as your consultant work here would take priority, the project, which would have to be done in your spare time, could take you up to a year and a half to complete. We've already spoken to Hughes. He's agreed that since this project is federally funded, this work could be considered part of your work release contract. With certain reasonable conditions," Peter eyed him knowingly, "we could get the government to agree that once you finish the project, you will have completed your obligation to the people. You'd be off probation and free."

"Free. I'd be free?" Now Neal's eyes were suddenly shiny and wide.

Peter walked over and placed his hands on Neal's shoulders drawing his attention to him, "Neal, the work will be highly publicized, a public relations win for the F.B.I., Raleigh's Committee and especially you. It could lead to other government and private commissions and could start you on a legitimate career in the art world. Isn't that something you've always wanted?"

Neal just stared at him wide eyed barely able to catch his breath. He couldn't believe what was happening. "How, you can do that? I mean, I don't know what to say. I…"

Peter slapped Raleigh on the back, "Now that's a miracle. Neal Caffery lost for words."

Neal had never dreamed, never considered that his artwork would ever bring him such an opportunity, such a legitimate chance to paint and to help others, doing something that brought him such joy. All he could do was gasp in wonder.

Peter, smiled, "Raleigh, I think that means yes."

**Just so you all know, this story is completely written. If you want more, please let me know and there will be another chapter posted every few days.**


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry, I'm really screwing up posting this. Here is the real Chapter 2

Chapter 2/7

It had been a long and frustrating day at the F.B.I's White Collar Division. As a gesture of good will preliminary to disarmament talks, a Matisse from a private collection was being donated to the North Korean State Museum and the F.B.I. was to oversee security for the trip from where it was housed to the airport. It was Neal's job to authenticate the painting at every juncture of the process while it was under the protection of the F.B.I. Despite Neal's warning of an operational blind spot, an art thief managed to steel the work just as it was being crated. Neal had figured out the guy's escape route and from there, where he was probably running.

Unfortunately, when the thief was cornered, he threatened to destroy the painting if they wouldn't let him go. Neal tried to bargain with him but one of the other F.B.I. agents decided Neal was really just trying to steel the painting for himself and despite orders to stay back, he rushed in and the panicked the thief who set fire to the painting, himself and the agent as well. It was another explosion, right in Neal's face, another reminder of how he thought he failed.

Both men had had their fill of debriefings by the U.S. and North Korean security forces as well as a few other agencies thrown in for good measure.

They had decided to forego whatever facilities were available to them to clean up at F.B.I. Headquarters and head for the comforts of their homes.

Though both Peter and Neal were still frazzled from the experience, Peter gave Neal a ride. They had just turned onto Riverside Drive when they saw a small group of men and women from middle to old age oohing and ahing as they walked up the stairs to June's house.

"Oh, G-d, Peter, the committee is here already. It's my first meeting with them. I thought I'd have at least a few minutes to clean up."

Because of Neal's time and distance constraints, June had offered the use of her home for Raleigh Elliott's committee meetings with Neal and she was gratefully taken up on her kindness.

Neal looked down at his soot ruined suit and his dirty hands.

"I'm dead.'

"Cowboy up, Caffery, it comes with the territory."

Neal turned to Peter, "You know that John Wayne never said that."

"Just get in there," Peter chuckled.

"Neither did Gary Cooper, Randolph Scott or Clint Eastwood."

"Make my day," Peter said in an amazingly good imitation of the actor's growl.

"That was Dirty Harry, not a western."

"You're scared."

"Nay, not a bit."

"Terrified?"

Neal looked at him, "Honestly?"

Peter nodded,

"Petrified."

"You realize that they're probably more nervous about attempting to impress you than you are about meeting them?"

Neal looked at him puzzled, and then that sadness overtook him again, "Because I'm a criminal?"

"No, that's not it at all. It's because you're an artist."

"I don't want to con them Peter. I'd never do that to people like that. I mean, I don't think I could right now even if I wanted to."

"Neal, they came to meet you the man who can create such beautiful works of art. That's not a façade you can put on; it's not a mask or a set of cloths or a persona you can adopt. Your art; your creativity is all inside you. It's the real you, what makes you who you really are. Show them that person, and you'll be just fine."

"And if that doesn't work I can always pick their pockets.'

"Until I catch you," Peter smirked as Neal finally moved to get out of the car. "You want me to come in with you to help smooth the ruffled feathers?"

"Ah, no, thanks, Mr. Dillon, I think I'll stand a better chance with just Raleigh."

"Can't say I blame you, he's always been a faster draw."

After letting Neal out, Peter decided to park the car, follow Neal in and see if he could bum a cup of Italian roast off of June before heading home to Brooklyn

Just as Neal's elegant benefactress greeted Peter, they heard Neal in the back parlor say, in a commanding voice, "No ladies and gentlemen, I was never a thieving artist, I was an art thief, and internationally known for my good taste. However today, I don't plan on stealing any of your watches, oh, sorry, sir, this must be yours." They heard a few nervous chuckles. "But I do plan on stealing a few minutes of your time, if you'll allow me to freshen up." The committee members laughed as Neal motioned for Raleigh to follow him up the stairs.

"What the hell?" Peter said as the eclectic group of suburbanites converged on the buffet June had set out for them.

June just shrugged her shoulders and ushered Peter towards a sitting room just as Raleigh came down stairs with a portfolio which Peter knew was filled with Neal's preliminary sketches of the murals.

He moved quickly to Peter, "That idiot was Shelly; he's always had a big mouth; however it's only matched by his very big heart. But Neal won him over. Walking in like that, covered in soot, he won them all over as someone who wouldn't think he was too important to listen to their ideas. Picking Police Chief Shelly's Wiley's watch right of off his wrist put him in his place.

Peter blanched, "He stole a Police Chief's watch."

"And his wallet and keys; but Peter, he was so damn obvious about it, I could hardly call it stealing. But now they all know that he'll deal honestly with them."

June laughed as Peter shook his head, "Well I'll be."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3/7

By a few weeks later every once in a while, if you squinted, there was a glimmer showing through of the old Neal Caffery, minus the secret agendas and patronizing attitude, the one before his heart was torn to shreds. It was if he had taken hold of his facade, the convicted felon, and was holding onto it with his fingernails, even though it was crumbling. What was left, what was growing, the professional artist, had not yet formed enough for him to understand, to shape and to use. The thing was, as Neal acted differently towards the world, the world was responding differently toward Neal, which only added to his confusion and occasionally his distress.

This day, he bounded into Peter's office with a purpose and a smile. "Peter, would you set the tracker to allow me to go to the South Street Seaport Museum on Sunday from about 1 to 4 p.m.? I want to do some perspective sketches on the ship movements at the docks. Raleigh said he'd be free to act as handler then if you can't make it."

Peter smiled, "Sure, though I'm free and I'll call El. Weather's supposed to be nice so we might make a day of it" and picked up the phone to make the call, "and Neal, Hughes lifted the escort restriction within Manhattan over the two mile radius for anything that has to do with the project just as long as you give me notification of where and when. Of course, I'll still have to verify if Raleigh or I am not with you."

Bright blue eyes, wide with surprise, "Thanks Peter. I, I don't know what to say."

"No thanks necessary. I didn't do anything, Neal, you earned it."

"I," his expression seemed to fold in on itself. "Yeah, ah, well, thanks," he turned to go, shoulders slumped.

"Shit," Peter swore to himself, he just couldn't seem to stop himself. He had just rubbed Neal's nose in it again. He had to earn what was everyone else's right. It was one thing to constantly remind the over confident conman of his less than equal status when every day, heck, every minute had been a challenge to out think whatever scheme Neal might have, and usually was cooking up

But Neal's attitude had made a 180 turn. On the one hand, he had turned the same focus he had on finding Kate, to the art project, devoting all his spare time and energy for weeks on researching and sketching. On the other, the self entitled confident con man was relegated to an on call persona, only brought out when needed on an assignment. In its place was a fragile, lonely man, desperately trying to learn the rules he had so easily disregarded before. He wasn't trying to make the most of the opportunity he'd been handed, he was simply trying to prove himself worthy of the opportunity. Neal was more terrified of failure than he ever had been of going back to prison.

This was not what Peter wanted for the guy. He wanted Neal to see what he was capable of accomplishing, the rich full life he could have and to work to make it happen. The last thing Peter wanted was for Neal to feel desperate, unequal and afraid of failure because that attitude would put him right back on a path to prison, faster than his cons and schemes ever did.

The irony of it was that Neal could not see his own success in the actions and attitude of others. Yet to Peter, they were many. June's willingness to support Neal in the project was just one.

Raleigh was another. The man despite his deference to Neal's art and talent was one of the most hard-nosed agents Peter knew. Yet he had nothing but praise at how Neal's charm and clear thinking had eased the way through many committee dissension. Every single member of the committee, even the Police Chief had become an advocate for Neal and his work. If anyone attempted to use Neal's criminal past as the basis for an objection to one of his suggestions, or a roadblock to the project, it was looked upon as a weak attempt at a power play and dealt with accordingly.

As far as White Collar crime was concerned, Neal seemed content to remain in the office only too happy to focus on cold cases and paperwork investigations. Decades old mysteries were being cleared, scams were stopped before they happened, proactive defenses against identity theft were implemented and Hughes was actually singing Neal's praises.

The thing was, Neal, who once went to any length to seek praise, no longer seemed to hear it when it was freely given.

Peter knew something had to be done to help his friend. He just didn't know what.

Finally on a beautiful spring day Neal's on site work would begin. Hughes had given him two week's to get as much done as possible with the promise of another two weeks every two months, dependent on the division's case load. Besides, the hospital renovations were taking time and Neal had to wait until the Building Department had given the okay to a space before Neal could start his prep work on the surfaces.

Armed with paints, drop clothes and other assorted equipment borrowed from the F.B.I. seizure storage locker, with Director Hugh's blessings, Neal and Peter drove to the suburbs. To Peter's chagrin Hughes had assigned him as Neal's gopher/watchdog. Neal didn't even try to hide his grin at Hughes obvious enjoyment of sticking it to Peter.

Neal had been chattering non-stop about his plan to build the scaffolding and how to begin the work but stopped as they crossed the George Washington Bridge heading into New Jersey.

Looking north up the Hudson River, admiring the Palisades, Neal breathed deeply, feeling freer than he had in five years and more enthused and un-conflicted than he ever could remember.

"Peter?"

"Hmmm?"

"How were you able to arrange this?"

"What?"

"Getting all the time taken off my probation, the work, everything."

"I didn't, Raleigh did."

"Well?"

"Raleigh's always been very civic minded. He's known for his philanthropic work all the way to the federal level and has an excellent reputation for getting hopeless projects completed. He knows how to use what he has. One asset is the fact that the buildings you'll be working on belonged to the state and they're a bit embarrassed that artwork that the federal government commissioned had to be destroyed through lack of care.

"So taking all of this into consideration, as well as your noteworthy record under my direction, Raleigh called the governor and asked for a favor. The governor called the state attorney general and asked for a favor, the state AG called the federal district attorney and asked a favor. The federal district attorney called the U.S. District Attorney and asked for a favor and he petitioned the Federal judge who originally sentenced you and the judge called me."

"Wow, those are a lot of favors,"

"Yup."

"But why me?"

"Why not you?"

"Gosh, Peter, I don't know, maybe because I'm a convicted felon?"

"Gosh Neal, I don't know, maybe because you're a better artist than money can buy and they don't have any money."

Peter was waiting for what he had come to expect as a typical Caffery comeback, like "oh, and how much money do you think my art is worth" but instead he got.

"Yeah, but even so, getting all this time off a known felon's probation, that's some favor! I hope I'm worth it."

And there it was Peter thought, there was the flaw that would always lead Neal to failure on the right side of the law and onto a path to the wrong side. Peter knew where it came from and every time he saw it he wanted to strangle the monster who taught this brilliant and talented man to doubt his worth, his value as a human being.

"Neal, you just don't seem to get it. None of these people see themselves as doing you favors or giving you anything. Raleigh and his committee and all those politicians and appointees see it as you giving them. You used to steal from the community but right now you're giving back to the community. Besides, not to give you a big head, we think you are worth it." He turned to Neal, knowing the guy would be expecting this from him, "Just don't go all cocky on us and try to steal the walls and ceiling. I don't think carrier pidgins would work this time."

Peter could see a glimmer if playfulness returning to Neal's eyes, "I don't know, maybe if I feed them Wheaties."

Both men chuckled before Neal sat back in his seat quietly for the rest of the ride. In the space of a year he had gone from convict to barely tolerated 'pet-convict' yes, he'd heard the whispers, to acknowledged consultant and now to respected craftsman and artist. And the last was from the very people who hunted, caught, tried, convicted and imprisoned him. They were doing favors for him. It made his head spin. He could not figure the angle and for some unexplained reason, he was happy that he couldn't find one.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4/7

It was barely a week later, on a beastly hot humid day, as Peter returned from a meeting he'd been called to in the city for that he entered the vaulted foyer of the first building to be worked on and realized he was looking at the true essence of his partner/charge/friend F.B.I. consultant Neal Caffery.

He had left this morning knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Neal would stay put, because there was no place else the man wanted to be, nothing else he wanted to do. Peter smiled while secretly watching the former con-artist, correcting in his mind, "No, on this job, he's an artist." His partner, almost always impeccably attired, lay flat on his back on the 20 foot high scaffolding, ala Michelangelo, bib-overalls but no tee-shirt, a sheen of sweat coating his chest, arms and throat, glistening with every movement, backwards baseball cap confining his hair, covered nearly head to toe in paint, humming a Sinatra tune, with a look of pure joy on his face.

Peter sighed in pride, for Neal and for his own accomplishment in bringing some happiness to the soul of his friend, even at the cost of the guy running him ragged fetching and carrying.

But then Peter looked beyond Neal to what he was creating and his breath caught in his throat. The panel was to depict the Washington Irving tale of Rip Van Winkle. The character was waking up after his 20 year nap and looking out at the Hudson River but this was a site Peter had never seen. Even in the relative darkness of the foyer the representation of the river sparkled with an inner light he found difficult to believe could be reproduced by mere paint.

Forger, conman, thief, whatever Neal had ever been, there was such beauty in his soul, there was divine genius. If only he could get Neal to see that for himself, understand what he really was.

"Hey, watch it will ya? Jeez, Neal." Peter dabbed at the drops of green paint that splattered against his gray suit jacket, his cleaning efforts only causing it to dribble onto his pants.

Neal turned his soft smile breaking into an apologetic frown, "Hey, you're back! How'd the meeting go?" Peter, eyebrow raised, just pointed to the splatters, "Oh, sorry, Peter, but it's your own fault for standing on the drop clothes that mark the work area. Paint is going to drip down. There's nothing I can do about it."

After what the kid, yeah, he was 33 but Peter still thought of him as a kid, had been through in the last five years, he felt bad for breaking into the artistic zone Neal had been in but if he showed sympathy, it wouldn't do Neal any good.

"You're just sloppy. I don't know how you managed to forge all those documents without getting caught," Peter grumped.

"It was allegedly forged and I guess it was because the agent assigned my case was so inept. I think you might know him, Agent Burke."

"Yeah, well, try running again and you'll see how inept he is."

"You know, I think those paint splatters actually improve that suit. Maybe if you stand closer I can get more on you."

"No thank you. You've done enough for my wardrobe already. Besides, it's an old suit and El's been begging me to get rid of it for years. This just gives me a good excuse."

Neal beamed a smile back at him, "Then I take back my apology."

Peter grumped again, just for good measure, "How's it going?"

Neal frowned. "Okay, but it would be better if we could get a little more light in here. Those battery charged portables aren't quite strong enough for me to get an idea of the color intensity needed for the effect I want to achieve." Neal babbled off a list of luminosity, wattage, filter hues and wave length parameters that made Peter's head spin.

"Okay, okay, I'll see what I can do about that after I change clothes, boss." He said emphasizing the last word. Both men chuckled at the role reversal as Peter went back to where their equipment was stored.

It wasn't long before Neal heard footsteps coming into the room beneath him.

"Peter? That was quick!"

A whimpering sound caught Neal's attention. Turning to look down he saw what must have been something, or someone, a small someone disappear into the deeper recesses of the building.

He didn't want to leave his work but if that was a child, then he had to get him or her out of the building. The foyer, where he was working, was the only place that had been completely refurbished and had anything more than natural light to illuminate the room. Besides, areas of the building and the underground warren of tunnels connecting the old structures and used during bad weather, were still infested with vermin that had taken up residence in the walls and rotting floors. It was easy to get lost and with the reconstruction and renovation effort ongoing throughout the structure it was dangerous for anyone, but especially a child.

Neal made it down from the scaffolding and barely into the next darker hallway when he heard the whimper again. Turning, he saw a small brown haired boy cringing and trembling in the shadows of a corner.

"Orry, orry, pes no urt, no urt."

"Hey, it's okay. I won't hurt you. Don't be afraid." Peter had told Neal repeatedly how he seemed to relate to children so well, "because you still are one." Yet when Neal approached the child, surprisingly, the young boy keened, and rocked, his eyes widened in fear. Neal knelt down to get better eye contact through the gloom and darkness and quickly drew in a breath.

What he could see of the child's face had once been beautiful. But there were large areas of discoloration from what looked like burn scaring. The skin was mottled with bruises and swelling, and one side of his forehead looked like it had been bashed in leaving what appeared as an indentation. Neal could see old bruising and red, angry half healed burn marks on the boy's bare arms as well.

Neal winced as old memories flooded his mind. He could hear his father yelling at him, "You're nothing, you're no good, you're worthless." He began to tremble as the wash of emotions overcame him, his shame, his fear, his screaming, pleas to stop, apologizing for crying. "What's this scribbling? You're wasting my money with this crap, just like crap, you crap it all over the place. Can't you keep it inside you where it belongs?" his drawings ripped to shreds, and burned and the lighter turned towards him as he pleaded, "You know the only thing you're good for. Come here and let me show you how to push that crap back inside you. Come on boy, give me what I want or you'll regret it," swearing to keep it a secret, to be a good boy, to let daddy and his friends do what they wanted to him, pain, burning pain, crying, begging, shaking as he futily hid in closets or under beds or covers.

"Mark, Mark, where have you run off to now?" Neal shook off the vivid memories, his heart beat slowing as a woman's voice brought him back, to the present.

Seeing how the boy uncurled himself at the sound, Neal stood up just as a plain faced young woman with short dark hair wearing loose jeans and a bright purple t-shirt proclaiming in yellow day-glow, "I'm the nurse," came in and gasped. "Who are you?"

"I'm the painter?" Neal chuckled looking down at himself, hardly the vision of sartorial splendor he usually worked hard to convey, "in case you couldn't tell."

The nurse or Neal assumed she was a nurse, chuckled nervously. "Oh, yes, of course. I heard they conned someone in here to do the work."

Neal laughed which caused the woman to look at him as if he had grown horns.

"But it's for a worthy cause."

This only made Neal laugh harder.

"I'm sorry," Neal said trying to control himself, wiping his eyes of tears that were only partially from the laughter.

The woman took a step back but then reminded herself of her purpose. "Ah, have you seen a small boy by any chance. He likes to play around here."

Neal pointed and the nurse followed his arm to where the boy, Mark, had already stood up and was reaching his arms out towards the woman.

"Athy, athy, orry."

As the boy made his way to the woman, Neal could see more old scaring on his legs, that one was in a brace and that he had to drag the other. From some forensic classes Peter had insisted he take, he could tell that the child suffered some nerve damage and what had happened to the boy had happened repeatedly over a long period of time, but from what he could see, none of the scars were less than a few months old.

As the boy reached the woman she bent down and hugged him closely and kissed his head, to which he responded warmly.

Neal let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. She could not be the abuser of the child, not from the way Mark reacted to her, without any fear.

As the woman stood up, Neal spoke softly, "Cathy, is it, may I ask what happened to the boy?"

The woman tousled Mark's hair, "Go outside, back to Building C. Sylvie came to visit and will take you for a snack. Tell her I'll be there in a minute."

She turned back to Neal, looking him up and down, sizing him up as the boy walked off. "I can't tell you much more than you have obviously surmised. He's an artistic, bright, loving, sensitive child. Unfortunately there are some people who see such beauty and take pleasure in destroying it."

Neal, troubled, watched her as she walked out, passing Peter coming back wearing jeans, a red work shirt and his FBI windbreaker, which he had obviously traded off from his dirty suit, and pushing a cart with a portable generator with one hand and carrying some portable electric lights with the other.

Peter, about to make some comment on Neal's nearly obsessive need to flirt with everyone, was stopped by the look on Neal's face, revealing a mood starkly different from the one he was in just minutes ago.

"What happened?"

Neal seemed to be shaken from his contemplation. "I, I just, it, ah," he stuttered, his usual loquacity having abandoned him momentarily before his trademark smile lit his face, "Nothing, Peter. Did you get everything?"

Putting down the lights, Peter put a hand on Neal's shoulder, feeling the rock hard tension there and kneaded the muscle, "Neal, come on, you're white as a sheet. Tell me what's wrong?"

With a sigh, the entire Caffery façade disappeared. "There was a little boy, maybe four or five years old, who wandered in here before, a patient at the children's hospital I guess. She came looking for him. Someone had burned and beaten him so badly he's been permanently scarred, mutilated. From what she said, he's probably suffering some brain damage from the beatings to be here. He was also probably sexually abused from his reaction to me, comes with the territory a lot of times." He took a breath, quieting his own jangling nerves. Looking down and away from the taller man, "You know my file," he nearly whispered, "It, it could have been me, Peter."

It was rare for Neal to speak about his past other than his life with Kate. Peter knew why. He remembered reading all the different reports, police, social services and hospital filed on Neal. Except for reports nothing had ever been done to protect him. At the age of 10 Neal ran away from home to be found by Mozzie, barely more than a teenager himself at the time. The then petty thief had taken him in and done a million times better by Neal than his own father. Most children who survived abusive homes became abusers themselves. But Dante Haversham had obviously been able to show enough love and understanding towards Neal to break that cycle. Peter knew for a fact, as angry as Neal Caffery ever got, which was not often, he never acted out in violence.

"Did you have a flashback?"

Neal's eyes flashed up sharply, but then they softened at Peter's steady look, and seeing the concern there lowered his gaze to the floor. "I haven't had them in a long time. Not since prison. I guess just seeing that kid. It was like I could hear my father's voice."

It was then that a tidbit of knowledge sparked from the recesses of Peter's memory making him feel sick. Looking over at Neal, he didn't think the man knew. Damn, of course he didn't know, otherwise he would never have agreed to come anywhere near this place. The question was whether it was up to Peter to voluntarily tell him.

"I want to do something to help that kid but I don't know what."

Shaking himself from his own thoughts, Peter gestured towards Neal's work. "This building will be helping him, Neal, and others like him. You are helping him."

Neal looked back up at Peter, "Yeah but, it seems so little, not worth…" he was cut off by Peter's scowl and Neal's mood suddenly shifted, smiling, "Hey, we've got work to do, gopher." he said again enjoying the role reversal this job had given them. "Help me get these lamps set up and then I'll see what other tasks I've got for my lowly assistant. Maybe you can alphabetize some paint chips."

Peter grabbed Neal's cap off his head and quickly ruffled the man's hair getting flecks of paint all over both of them. "I'll just start with these," he laughed. "Enjoy bossing me around while you can cause when we get back to the office next week I'm sure I'll have a lot of filing with your name on it."

"Really, all of them? No one else ever committed a crime?" Neal said as he bent to work.

"Cute, Neal."

Neal grinned. "You think I'm cute? What would El say?"

As Neal assembled one of the lamps, Peter decided that as soon as he could arrange it, he was going to pay a visit to the Institute for the Study of the Criminally Insane that shared grounds with the Psychiatric Clinic to make sure that a certain inmate was in the most secure dark, deep, depths of the place possible.


	5. Chapter 5

I have tried to respond to each one of the individual reviews I've received. Some reviewers have blocked the ability to respond so to them as well to those I've already written, thank you everyone who has taken the time to tell me their thoughts on this story. It's very much appreciated so please those cards and letters coming.

A/N This is a private taxpayer announcement: On the show, it seems whenever they remove the anklet tracker they cut the strap with either a knife or scissors and must get a whole new tracker (or strap, it's never clear which) before putting it back on (I'd like that job, boy would I like that job). As a taxpayer, I take umbrage (which as a taxpayer is about all I'm allowed to take) with the waste of government resources which are paid for with MY money. Therefore, for the purposes of this chapter, the tracker can be removed without snipping the band, and therefore reattached by appropriate personnel, such as Peter by any secret means the reader, that's you, cares to imagine. That takes one creative conundrum off of me, the writer and makes me, the taxpayer, a lot happier, even if it is just fanfiction taxes. (I wish all my taxes were just fanfiction taxes, and seeing the date, I hope you've all filed like good taxpaying citizens.) We now return you to your irregularly scheduled story.

Chapter 5/7

It took a few days for Peter to get all the clearances needed to observe and visit Everett Caffery with the excuse of questioning him about several of the atrocities he was suspected of, but not charged. 'Hmm, now who does that sound like?' he thought to himself.

Standing in an observation/security booth, Peter watched on the surveillance camera monitors. inmates/patients/test subjects interact in a dayroom. He had little trouble picking out Neal's father. While resembling Neal, Everett's face looked broader and rougher. He looked older than his 55 years of age. He stood a little taller than Neal but where Neal was lean and slender, Everett had obviously spent time building up his muscles, though some had gone to flab around his waist. However, where Neal's eyes had always held humor and a spark of childlike enthusiasm and wonder at the discoveries around him, the look in Everett's eyes was pure loathing. His features were twisted by his expression into something that terrified Peter, deep down and churned at his gut.

Everett Caffery had physically and mentally brutalized Neal and his mother in ways that even the hardened law enforcement professional found sickening. He'd seen the pictures taken of mother and son in police, hospital and social service files through Neal's childhood years, until his mother died, or was murdered, when he was eight. It didn't take the highly intelligent boy that many more years to run as fast and as far as he could from his remaining parent.

Neal had been right about the terribly mutilated boy, he'd seen. It could have been him. Neal's father had been careful, going for pain more than damage and never leaving marks where any casual observer would notice. But there were scars that had faded over time and some Peter felt sure, had remained. Peter daily spotted signs of the psychological scaring, most typically in the lies that were second nature to Neal (though he had made great strides in this area), his obsessiveness concerning the letter of law, if not the spirit, the inability to accept that people could like him for himself, his near eagerness to please and need to be accepted, his constant flirting and need for assurance.

Peter knew that Neal didn't see how these somewhat childish characteristics could make him as much of a mark for some people as others had been a mark for him. As such, Neal needed protection, not just for that but because, as a convict, even in work release, he had no privileges and few rights, he was basically at the mercy of the F.B.I. In taking on the responsibility of being Neal's handler, Peter realized he had to become his protector as well. It put Peter in the position of big brother/and father figure and because he really liked Neal, his friend as well. He wanted to undo the damage done to the boy Neal by the man who hurt him, and guide the man Neal had become so that, on his own, he would have a chance to make it without falling back into a criminal lifestyle. Most importantly, he wanted Neal to have a better sense of his own worthiness.

What the so called father had done to his son was beyond Peter's ability to comprehend, except that this was evil. From the way the man interacted with his fellow test subjects, Everett had not changed.

Everett approached a table where a man was doodling with a crayon on a sheet of paper. He told the man to stop and give him the paper. He was ignored. So he told the man to give it to him or he'd stuff the paper down his throat, but he was ignored again. So Everett grabbed the paper the man was working on, ripped it up and proceeded to stuff it in the man's mouth. "The art must be inside. You can't let it out. You can't," he ranted.

Other inmates startled by the altercation moved away as the victim pulled away from Everett, stood up and punched him in the jaw, spitting out the pieces of paper. "

"What's your problem?"

Punching him back Everett screamed, "You've got to keep the art inside," and repeated that hitting the man until he let go of the crayon. then he picked up the spittle covered pieces of paper from the floor. Before he could do any more damage, the man got up and took the the paper from him, saying "Yeah, okay, I'll keep it on the inside, sure," and walked away.

"Why aren't your orderlies protecting them from each other," Peter asked Dr. Myron Lyons, the head of the institute who stood with him.

"We give them an unsupervised couple of hours of interaction each day to see how the treatment is working. If there was a real danger, it would have been stopped." The man pointed to areas where tazers were set high in the ceiling which could be remotely aimed and discharged.

Peter's breath hissed out of his mouth. "A real danger! I don't know what drugs you're giving him but they don't look like they're working."

"Actually, they are," said the doctor. "He's a particularly violent case and this formulation calms him down but also seems to have the side effect of delusional behavior. There was a time when he would have beat the man into submission, maybe even death before stating what he wanted. This time he explained his goal and only used the force he deemed necessary to achieve his objective."

Peter stared at the man in amazement and disgust. "Yeah, I can see how that's some improvement," he said facetiously.

"Yes, yes indeed it is," the doctor said, missing the point.

"It's so hard to believe. G-d Neal what you had to live through," Peter muttered but not softly enough to avoid being overheard.

"Ah, yes, we've heard that his son is on the grounds? He's the famous convicted art thief who's doing community service."

"Former art thief," Peter was quick to correct. "He works for the F.B.I. as an art consultant and is helping out with a restoration project."

"An ex-convict, like father like son I guess."

Peter starred at the man in shock and anger, and could not see how the doctor could compare Neal to Everett.

"They couldn't be more different. Neal is the most non-violent man I've ever met yet he's put his life on the line dozens of times to save others. He's even saved my life a time or two. I could never see him capable what Everett just did."

"You know Everett talks about Neal constantly," said the doctor as if he hadn't heard Peter at all. "He's proud of his son's accomplishments, anti-social as they might be. I understand it has been more than 20 years since they've seen each other. We haven't told him that his son is so close. If he wants to see him, and your friend consents, we wouldn't object to him visiting as long as the visit is supervised and we have stepped up security. We could arrange for that in a day or two."

"And if Neal doesn't want to see him, what do you think a man like that might do?"

Lyon's pondered the question, "Actually, I don't know. That would be a test of his impulse control I guess."

Peter wasn't too sure this so called doctor should be in charge of such a project.

"Please don't tell him anything yet. Look what he did because that guy wouldn't give up his drawing. I don't want to think about what he might do if he's denied a visit from his son."

Lyons nodded. "Okay, but this is a small place and the murals Mr. Caffery is creating are the talk of the staff. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that his father will hear it from one of them or the media sooner or later."

Peter had come here seeking some sort of answers and assurance that this monster was not in a position to ever hurt Neal again glad that Neal didn't even know he was working so close to where his father was confined, or treated as the case may be.

Peter realized that he had not really thought this whole thing through as much as he should have. Raleigh Elliott had told Peter that the entire committee could not stop talking about how knowledgeable, talented and insightful Neal was. Some people had asked if they could purchase his preliminary sketches of the project and rather than accept the money, Neal suggested that the committee auction them off to raise money to buy toys for the children who would be staying in the hospital. The suggestion had generated even more hype and several magazines had called Hughes requesting interviews and had asked to do color layouts on the work in progress. There was talk of future government and private commissions. Neal was on the verge of making a super big splash in the legitimate art world.

The question was, if the stress of success would be too much, would Neal's demons destroy whatever sense of self worth he had attained? Would he be able to work at the level he needed to without putting all these ghosts to rest or would it be better to face his demons down once and for all? Watching Neal's very real demon, Peter's next question was, was it really Peter's choice to make?

Peter had a lot of thinking to do. Unfortunately he took a little too much time doing it.

* * *

It was an exhausted Neal who limped up to his loft on Friday evening. While no one could ever call Neal a slacker or in bad shape, he was unused to the back breaking physical labor this project entailed. Because he and Peter had finished up late the facilities they usually used to shower and change were locked. This caused an unusually obsessive Peter to spend a half hour lining the seats of the Taurus with newspaper so they could sit in their paint spattered clothing. Neal was looking forward to stripping out of the filthy clothes, easing all the aches and pains away in a hot bath while killing a bottle of wine and then spending the next 24 hours comatose.

But, as he opened the door, he saw Mozzie who looked first surprised and then annoyed at seeing him.

"What?' Neal said making his way slowly to his bedroom to pull out his pajamas and robe.

"Your anklet is off? Why are you still here?"

Neal looked down at his ankle which was still slightly swollen despite being tightly encased in an ace bandage courtesy of Peter's first aid skills. "It got caught on the scaffolding and I lost my footing and ended up spraining my ankle. Peter removed the tracker and decided that putting it on my other ankle would be begging for another accident. I guess we both forgot about it."

"You're serious."

Neal limped over to the bathroom and hung his fresh clothing on the door. "Yes, I'm serious."

"The suit forgot about your anklet?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't run."

"The anklet was off but Peter was still there, Moz."

"And you didn't run."

"I wouldn't have gotten all that far with a sprained ankle."

"And you didn't run," he repeated.

"It hurt, I'm not a big fan of pain."

"And you didn't run."

"Change the record Moz, yes, I didn't run, alright?"

"The suit has changed you man. You have completely turned."

"With a sprained ankle?"

"I've seen you run a mile through city streets with a broken toe, and scale walls and climb fences with bullet holes in you.'

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess. He guesses," Mozzie had turned his back and was ranting to the balcony."

"Okay, right, I didn't run. There's other things more important than running, okay?"

Moz turned back to him?

"Like what?"

"Like, like, damn it Moz. I, I."

"This mural, the honest job, 9 to five, taxes, 401Ks, answering to the suit? What?"

Neal felt a stab of pain as his stress rose, "Do we have to do this now?"

Mozzie relented. "He's broken you man. You're shackled to the system. He controls your mind. You realize that."

"He doesn't control my mind."

"Really."

"Really."

"So, I can help you down stairs right now and put you on the first plane out of the country and that would be okay."

"First plane?"

"Yes."

"Could I clean up a bit?" Waving towards his paint spattered clothing, "I think I might look just a bit conspicuous for a get away." Neal gave a weak chuckle.

"Neal, I'm serious."

"Maybe tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Or Sunday, when the swelling in my ankle subsides."

Mozzie threw up his hands and left. Neal cringed at the sound of Mozzie slamming the door after him.

Neal carefully lowered himself down onto a kitchen chair and raised his leg up to the other seat to ease some of the pain.

He thought about what Mozzie had said months ago about guys like them. His fantasy of Kate, moving to the suburbs, buying a fixer upper, having kids and joining the PTA was gone and he couldn't see that happening with anyone else. But was that the only choice. Did he have to give up entirely on something different then living from scam to heist with no place to call home? "Maybe guys like me could still have a happily ever after?"

He looked at the place where the anklet was missing to the door and back again when the phone rang.

Digging his cell out of his pocket he sighed, "Now what," when he saw it was Peter.

"You're still there," there was relief in the voice.

"Hello, to you too Peter."

"You didn't run?'

"Not you too."

"What?"

"No, I didn't run. I'm here, sitting in my, no excuse me, in June's loft and starring at my swelling ankle."

"I told you we should have gone to an emergency room."

"No, I hate hospitals and I've had worse. If I just rest it this weekend it should be fine."

"Neal, I," he sighed. "Look Neal. I don't know how to say this right. There have been no incidents in months. I don't want to even think that I need to go over there now and put the tracker back on you. But if you, if you run..."

Peter wanted to trust him and he wanted Peter to trust him and yet, he, he didn't know if he could trust himself to do what? He didn't know. To run, to not run... Freedom was in his grasp but he had no illusions as to how quickly that would change if he screwed it up, or if someone else decided to screw up Neal's life.

"I, I won't lie to you, Peter. I've thought about it, but right now I'm just too tired to do anything about it."

"Can I trust you to stay put this weekend?"

Neal looked out at his view of the city, his couch which was Mozzie's home away from storage container, and his portfolio where he kept the sketches he'd already started for the next part of the mural and felt his chest constrict. He'd never felt so unsure of who he was and what he wanted and it terrified him.

"Peter, I won't run tonight. I couldn't run tonight. But if you and El want to come over early tomorrow morning for some of June's coffee and you happen to bring bagels for breakfast and the tracker was in your pocket, that would probably be a good idea."

There was quiet on the phone for a moment and he could just make out Peter and El talking but not what was being said. "Thank you Neal. See you then."

Neal stared at the phone for a long time knowing full well how much Peter was betting on trusting him right now, how much of a chance he was taking. He could lose his job, possibly even have charges brought against him for aiding and abetting him if Neal decided to run. El could too.

He didn't want to get them into trouble. On the other hand, if he ran, then why would he care? He did care. He couldn't deny that. He also cared about Mozzie, and Alex and how this life was alienating him from the few people he'd ever really been able to call friends before Peter. But there was something more, something else, another thought that was trying to form in his mind, another feeling, emotion that he couldn't define, some want, some need, that for the first time, made him more fearful of running than staying. Or maybe it wasn't fear. He just didn't know.

He had a lot of thinking to do.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6/7

"Burke, Caffery, get your asses in here," Hughes' angry bellow from his office was loud enough to shake the glass wall separators throughout the floor.

This was Neal's second day back from finishing the third panel and he was working diligently to get through the backlog of files on his desk so he could get home early and start work on the tracing for the next part.

Elliott had called him this afternoon with news that after viewing Neal's work several new patrons donated money for the mural project to be expanded to other buildings on the campus. Neal now had to cover what amounted to a football field and it could be more. Though it extended the time of the project to possibly two years, and would bring some money to Neal's pocket, Peter said it would not extend the time of his probation, so he was thrilled.

His work at White Collar had benefited from his improved perspective. In the intermittent weeks between painting he'd managed to uncover a major mortgage fraud scheme, stop a ponzie scheme in the making before investors lost millions and developed a protocol for proactively preventing some types of insurance fraud. Neal also was managing to please Peter and the rest of the team by not getting taken hostage, or getting drugged, not pulling off illegal or even gray area stunts, not jumping from buildings and getting the job done through the methodical gathering of evidence. Neal also managed to not get any guns pointed at any of the team, a big plus as far as Neal was concerned.

After saving his work and closing the file, he ran up the steps two at a time only to have Peter meet him at the top and grab his elbow holding him up, "Neal," he teased, "what did you do?"

'The more things change, the more they stay the same,' Neal thought. No matter that he was doing this favor for Peter's friend, no matter that he was walking a straighter and narrower path than he ever did before, whenever there was trouble, everything that he had done to help, every case he had solved, every accomplishment was forgotten, worthless. He was still the prime suspect, and nothing but a worthless thief and liar. He used to take it in stride, make jokes or some snarky remark back, but the more he kept to the rules, the more it hurt to be accused of breaking them.

Neal looked at Peter in exasperation, unable to stop some of his anger and frustration from slipping through his usual iron control. "Fighting crime and being a law abiding citizen," he said, his eyes wide with innocence.

"I only wish," Peter joked.

"Peter," Neal's voice deepened with anger, "I've been too busy to do anything that you might think I've done. I haven't even seen Mozzie in weeks and then we only played chess."

"Uh, huh, the last chess game you played led to a heist at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the murder of a petty thief, a scam to raise the price of a bottle of wine, and a payoff to the Russian mafia."

Neal put on his ingratiatingly false smile, "And if you recall, my involvement was more as a victim, not the perp, who you probably would not even have known about if it weren't for me." Then, seriously, "Honestly, Peter, I haven't a clue what this is about."

"Neal, you using the word 'honestly' in any sentence is an oxymoron."

Neal rolled his eyes, his anger full blown, "Peter, back off. I haven't done anything illegal."

"Okay, I believe you," Peter said grudgingly. One thing Peter had learned this past year about Neal was that when he was lying or coning he was in perfect control and no matter what was said or done to him, he'd take it in stride. But when Neal was innocent and being honest, an accusation would cause his anger to flare and his emotions would run rampant, reflected like an open book on his face. Secretly, Peter was just happy to see some spirit return to the man, even if it was in anger.

"Thank you. Your confidence in me is underwhelming." Neal said factiously.

"Let's get in there," Peter said pushing Neal forward into the lion's den, better known as Assistant Director Hughes' office.

"Okay, Caffery,:" Hughes said holding a phone to his ear and his hand over the mouthpiece, "I have a direct site line to your desk and I know that you've been working there since early this morning, without so much as a coffee break. So why am I getting a report that you escaped this afternoon, took a child hostage and are listed as at large and possibly armed and dangerous, last known location, the Psychiatric Clinic in upstate New York where you've been working?"

Neal felt a surge of panic when he was accused of something he knew nothing about knowing that for him it was guilty until proven innocent. It was not an unusual occurrence, being the resident criminal, but it always implied a return to prison, which bothered him much more now than it used to, probably because he had so much more to lose. On the other hand having F.B.I. Assistant Director Reese Hughes as a self-proclaimed alibi did ease his mind, just a bit.

Before he could say anything, Hughes, held up a finger to wait and turned his back, listening on the phone, then screamed at the person on the other end, "well next time get the god damn first names straight before you start accusing a respected member on one of my teams of criminal activity or I'll have your ass, you got me?"

He turned, slammed the phone down and motioned for Peter and Neal to sit down. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he joined them. "Sorry Caffery, it seems it's an Everett Caffery, who is a volunteer for the drug therapy experiments for the criminally insane. He has been demanding that they let him see his son for the past week, something about keeping his art to himself. He escaped this afternoon and is believed to be holding a child hostage in the building you were working in a few days ago. Some idiot who heard you were working up there got the first names confused."

Peter only barely had time to feel sick to his stomach as he saw Neal's eyes go wide with shock and his face pale before his usual game face slipped on. Only Peter's practiced "Neal mood detector," eye noted the slight tremor in the consultant's hands. For Neal, the master of emotional control, this was a full fledged panic attack. Peter knew this was all his own fault yet all he had tried to do was fix things, like his friend's life and he thought he'd been doing a pretty good job at it until this very moment.

Hughes, was not blind, "Okay, so this guys your father." It wasn't a question.

"Neal," Peter said when the man didn't answer immediately.

"Yes," Neal paused to take a breath, his eyes flashing towards Peter for a moment of support and caught the slightest nod of his handler. "Some would call him that," Neal said quietly, sounding ashamed. But then he looked up, wide-eyed, "but that's all I know," his voice gaining strength and anger. "I didn't even know he was there and I haven't seen him in more than 20 years. Quite frankly, I was hoping the rotten bastard was burning in hell."

"If there's any fault, it's not Caffery's, Hughes. it's mine."

"What?" both men turned to him.

Peter never showed embarrassment when he invaded Neal's privacy because, as a convict, a parolee, Neal had no right to privacy and truth be known, those invasions probably kept Neal out of a lot of trouble in the beginning. Yet this was different and he knew it because this was not Neal's privacy he had invaded, this was Neal's pain.

"I knew that Caffery's father was there. I wanted to make sure he wasn't a danger to Neal so I went in and spoke to the director there. He suggested a visit be arranged. I disagreed."

"But somehow Caffery's father found out that Neal was close by. How did that happen?"

"Neal, his association with the F.B.I., his status as a work/release consultant that he's an artist and helping with the restoration, there isn't much that hasn't been in the media," said Peter. "It's no surprise that Everett found out about it. The director, Dr. Lyons said it would be possible that it could happen and news would come in from the staff or the news. The place is a treatment center, not a prison. I'm surprised we hadn't heard some indication that he'd heard anything sooner."

Though Neal was usually quick on the uptake, the first round of shocks were just wearing off before the realization of what happened struck a more devastating blow. Neal turned to Peter. "Wait a minute, you knew? You knew that my father was there. How could you not tell me?"

"Neal, how could it possibly have mattered?"

And there it was again, he didn't count. His life was not his own, he was just something to be used. Neal jumped up,slamming his hand on the table top, more angry than he ever remembered being at Peter. "Well now it does matter, doesn't it? Don't you think that would have been my decision to make?"

"Well, now you know and you've got another decision to make, Neal" said Hughes, drawing the focus back on him and taking back control of the situation. "You're father is considered highly unstable and dangerous, possibly, probably armed. But apparently, he wants to see you. You meeting him is possibly the best chance we have of recapturing him before he hurts anyone or gets hurt himself.

Neal knew that even given his status, no one could force him to cooperate. Though he would have rather spent the rest of his life in prison than even a few minutes with his father, he realized he hardly had a choice. The hostage, other patients, many children, as well as the people who worked there should not have to be fearful for their safety because of his father's issues with him. He remembered well the carnage his father could accomplish. He couldn't let that happen. "I'm in," he nodded, barely maintaining his generally devil-may-care expression.

"Peter, assemble a team and go with him. There's a SWAT team already in place as well as state and local police and hospital security. This usually isn't the F.B.I.'s bailiwick however with Neal's involvement, I'm pulling rank and you're being given the lead. I don't like using any of my people as bargaining chips but we have no choice. As far as I'm concerned; Neal's safety is the top priority, same as the hostage. This will not be a repeat of Rice's fuck up trading deal.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7/7

It was an unusually subdued Neal Caffery who rode next to Peter as they traveled upstate leading the caravan of F.B.I. agents to the institute. Having finally beat the afternoon rush hour traffic through the city streets they crossed the George Washington Bridge, to the relatively lighter traffic up the Palisades Interstate Parkway.

As Peter drove he snuck peeks at his charge, wanting to help his friend in some way yet knowing that it was all his own fault. Every time Neal caught him looking at him, his game face slipped on, easy grin, self assured mask, totally in control. But even though his hands were stuffed into his pockets, Peter could see them trembling.

"What are you thinking?" Peter finally asked.

Neal gave him his con-man grin, "Oh, what any son thinks about when he goes to visit his father, playing games of catch in the back yard, doing homework together, being gently guided to follow in the old man's footsteps."

"Neal cut the crap. You know I read the files."

"Peter, you know how fathers and sons are. It's rare that they see eye to eye."

"Damn it Caffery, stop playing it like it was 'Father Knows Best,' I'm trying to help here."

"If you'll excuse me, Agent Burke, right now I think I'll fare a lot better without your brand of help," Neal said, effectively shutting Peter out.

"So now you're sulking?"

Neal turned to him, his usual facade broken, his emotions raw on his face. "No, now I'm trying to construct a persona for myself, one that isn't terrified of the demon that bore me, that brutalized me in every possible way for six years, that I barely escaped and who has been the star in my nightmares my entire life; a persona that has some chance of saving that child and surviving the meeting; a meeting that most likely would have never had to happen if it weren't for this project and your attempts to fix of my life."

Silence reigned until the team reached the perimeter set by the police around the old buildings. Passing through the police barricade, Neal spotted Cathy and realized with a sickening jolt that it must be Mark who his father held.

He was unstrapping his seatbelt when Peter grabbed his arm. "You stay in the car until we find out the present situation and get our team set. I don't want to take any chances."

Anger flamed in Neal's eyes, as he yanked his arm out of Peter's grasp, yet his voice was teasing, "Why Peter, I didn't know you cared."

Peter slammed the door in frustration as he got out. He knew that he had no right to be angry at Caffery but the man was doing his best to irritate him.

Violent as Everett Caffery was, he was just as bright and cunning as his son. He'd managed to steal several cell phones which he used to manipulate and to confuse the audio sensors and GPS trackers making it seem that he was in any number of the passageways and tunnels throughout the grounds. While most were abandoned, there were still some that lead to occupied dormitories and the main treatment facilities. Everett was also thought to have obtained a weapon during his escape but no one was sure about that. The only thing they seemed to be sure of was that he had a hostage and was threatening to kill the child if Neal didn't meet him.

It took Peter just 15 minutes to conference with the local team leaders and to coordinate their members with everyone knowing to take their lead from the F.B.I. agents.

As Peter walked into the operations command truck, he heard the cries of a child coming from the sound monitors that had been placed at different points outside the building.

"Now do the nice thing I asked you to do for me and I won't have to hurt you again," he heard a voice coming out of the audio.

"Where are they," Peter yelled at the people monitoring the audio feeds, heart sick and outraged at what was happening.

"We think he's somewhere in that building, but the monitors show at least 10 different locations. If we storm the wrong place and he sees us, he'll kill the child" said one of the police officers. "He'll only give the child up to his son."

They listened in horror to the pleading as Peter picked up the phone that was their contact to Everett. They could hear it ringing over the monitors registering a dozen locations, and ringing, and ringing.

"Pick it up, damn it, pick it up," Peter swore.

Though it was barely a few seconds it had seemed like hours before there was a curse, a slap and the crying changed to whimpers. Everett Caffery's voice could be heard from the speaker phone. "If my son is not here in the next ten minutes, then I'll train this boy to be my son instead. Won't you like me to treat you just the same as my own Neal? he asked the whimpering boy."

One minute later, Neal walked into the command truck.

Peter was talking to one of the other agents as they replayed the recording and heard Neal's gasp. It was for just a second but there was a look of terror on Neal's face, that and remembered pain. Then suddenly, the con face was back.

"Neal, I…" Peter grabbed an ear wig and handed it to Neal. "Wear this so we'll know what's going on," Peter said. "As soon as you get the hostage out we'll be in there, I swear. I..."

Neal waved his hand in dismissal cutting him off. "Well, Peter," he said, "It's been real," and turned around to enter a prison of another sort.

Peter grabbed him, holding him back, "Neal, don't let him do anything to you."

Neal laughed, "He's just another mark and I'm nothing but a con man."

"Damn it Neal, stop it. You try a con on him and he'll use you and then he'll kill you."

"Come on Peter, killing me saves everyone a lot of trouble. My father was always right. I'm just a worthless criminal."

Peter grabbed Neal's other arm, and shook the man. "If that were true then you wouldn't give a damn about that child, you wouldn't give a damn about your art, or the project or chasing down scum. You think you ever conned me, or June or Hughes, or El, or Raleigh any of our team about what you really are. We know you care. we know that you want to use your talents and gifts to do something good, and that's your worth. If your father were right then you wouldn't give a damn and neither would anyone else, you'd still be back in prison. If you're father were right then you wouldn't be here putting your life on the line and I wouldn't give a damn about someone who was nothing but a con man."

Neal's head was spinning with Peter's words, but less then a minute later, more frightened than he'd ever been he was walking into the building, to the scaffolding that he had erected and under the murals, his work, his original work, that he'd painted so lovingly over the past months, an expression of who he really was.

There was a cell phone on a rung of scaffolding that was ringing and Neal answered it. "Hello son."

"I'm here. What do you want?" he answered in a flat tone.

"After I hang up, turn off the phone and leave it there. Come halfway down the corridor and wait." The phone went dead and Neal walked into the darkened hallway. He heard rustling and a whimper coming from the far end of the corridor. As Neal reached the spot his father had indicated, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and for the first time in more than 20 years, saw the man from many of his nightmares emerge into the faint light coming from the outside. Mark dragged behind him, keening in fear.

"It's been a long time, Neal," Everett said smiling at him.

"I'm here," Neal snapped. "Let the boy go."

Everett's expression turned into that sickening lust filled look that haunted Neal. "Neal, baby boy, I release the sweet little thing and all those cops will be in here in seconds. You're so worthless they'd blast away, probably right through you."

"As if I'd care, as long as they got you."

Everett let go of Mark who stumbled into a corner as the man strode over to Neal, "Now, now, my boy," he said as Neal took several steps back, startled as he had come up against a beam. Everett grinned in triumph reaching out just before Neal ducked and evaded him. "Don't touch me," Neal said, damning the tremor in his voice, realizing Peter was right, he was too afraid of this man to pull a successful con. "You don't get to touch me."

"Why you little," Everett took a swing at Neal but again, Neal ducked away, edging towards Mark.

But Everett was no fool. He feinted another swing at Neal, but this time for him to duck out of the way, Neal had to leave his father a clear path to the young boy which Everett took and grabbed Mark around the waist and moved into the foyer.

Neal followed, sickened as his father caressed Mark's hair and murmured how he'd teach him into his ear.

"You know, he reminds me of you, how I could have made you, formed you, keeping all your beauty on the inside just for me." Everett said crushing the boy to him, ignoring his cries. "Of course, I had to make sure I saved your looks. No one would pay to use you if I marked you up like this. Fools think pretty things are better and so they'd pay more. But I knew the truth, I always knew. If I had only done what I really wanted, you'd still be mine."

Remembering what his father had put him through Neal felt his gorge rise but swallowed it back. He could not let the man get to him. He was not a child.

"But his prettiness, his art is still inside him. That's where the beauty is, inside and I know how to reach it, like I reached it with you."

"You said you'd trade the boy for me. I'm here," Neal said advancing toward his father into the lighted foyer where for the first time, Everett could clearly see Neal. His eyes went wild and backed up as Neal advanced on him.

"No, no you're not here, not the you that I want. What did they do to my baby boy?"

"What the hell is he talking about," he could hear Peter say over the earwig.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Neal whispered.

"I can fix you. I know how to fix you," said Everett. "Don't worry. It will be alright."

Neal couldn't keep track of the change in directions.

"They all told me about you but I knew your art was worthless so I didn't believe them. But you let your art out for them and they got your beauty. But it belongs to me."

"Is that what you want, my art?" Neal staggered with the epiphany. All the art Neal drew as a child, Everett sought to destroy before trying to finish the job on him, making him believe he was worthless. All these years, Neal would call his original work worthless, until he believed it, afraid that his father would destroy it, and thus succeed in finally destroying him and Neal believed it possible, until now. Until now because he knew how his father had conned him to get what he wanted, until now when he realized his own self-worth. His quick mind formed a plan. "Dad, I can give you my art if you give me the boy."

Neal could hear Peter in his ear protesting the trade. "Neal, find another way. Don't let him do this to you."

But Mark cried as Everett squeezed him closer to him and backed away from Neal.

"You're hurting him, give me the boy," Neal said

"No, I let you go once and look at you. You let the beauty out. I'll never let him go, never again.

Neal continued to advance on his father, backing him up as he had done to Neal earlier until Everett's back came against the legs of the scaffolding. Neal's eyes rose to his murals on the ceiling and Everett's gaze followed him. "What's that? he said.

Neal smiled his true smile, "It's my art, Dad. It's my art you never got. It got out. You can have it, you can have all that's there if you give me the boy."

Everett looked back at Neal and then up at the ceiling. "You made that. That's you. That's what was inside you?"

"Yes, yes," Neal said realizing the truth of the words. "That art, that's what's been inside me all along. You can have it to do whatever you want if you give me the boy."

Dropping Mark who fell curling up into a ball, Everett laughed in triumph as he grabbed the first cross bar of the scaffolding and climbed up yelling. "I'll get it, I'll get it. I'll destroy your worth to them and put it back inside you and you'll be my baby boy, my Neal, mine again."

Seeing his chance Neal rushed forward, "Peter, get the hell in here." Reaching Mark he grabbed him off the floor and rushed out the door as the crowd of police and F.B.I. agents swarmed in.

"You'll be all right now Mark," Neal, tried to comfort the crying child until he saw Cathy, the nurse being held back behind the police yellow tape. He called to them to let her past. As she ran forward Neal pointed her out to Mark. "See, there's Cathy."

As she approached, Mark reached out to her and she grabbed him, hugging him close. "Thank you Mr. Caffery. Thank you for saving him. Not many people would be willing to give up what you did for a child not their own."

"What?"

"We heard he wanted to destroy your art."

"Neal," he turned around hearing Peter calling to him.

He was standing with the S.W.A.T. and F.B.I. agents in the foyer around the base of the scaffolding watching as Everett Caffery squeezed the dregs out of old tubes of paint Neal had left there and smeared them all over Neal's murals, giggling to himself.

"What are you standing around for?" Peter yelled at the men, "Get him the hell down here and cuff him. Then tell that idiot Lyons I want him sedated before we transport him to a secure lock-up."

The police cuffed the ranting man before lowering him struggling, down before nearly dragging the fighting man to a police car. But as they passed Neal, he stopped. "You're worthless, you're worthless to them now. I destroyed everything you've ever done and now you'll be mine, always mine."

It all made sense to Neal, "You can't con a con man, Dad. You can't destroy me, and I can fix the art and all you'll ever own of me is this moment, make the most of it."

Unafraid of his father for the first time in his life, Neal turned and walked away back towards Peter.

"What a sick bastard," Peter said when Neal reached him. "He tried to take everything from you."

"He tried, but like Rip Van Winkle up there, it just took me 20 years to wake up."

"And now that you are awake?"

"It's what you've been trying to tell me, Peter. There's a lot more inside me that I can create and lot more than I can give of myself than I've ever taken from anyone else."

"Allegedly taken?" Peter said.

"Yeah," Neal smiled at his friend, "allegedly taken."

* * *

Epilogue:

Three years later.

There was not a wall or ceiling in the refurbished buildings that had not been graced with a Neal Caffery original mural. Order forms were made available to visitors for prints, postcards and reproductions of the murals, the proceeds used to purchase art supplies for the children in treatment.

Though Neal's probation had ended a year and a half ago, he'd only completed the humongous project the previous month. However, Neal was still kept busy, working through the private commissions that had piled up as well as consulting on an as needed basis for the F.B.I. White Collar Division.

What was not widely known was that the world renowned and highly sought after artist had foregone the doors that had been open to him to travel the world and partake of the glitz and glitter of mixing with the pretty people and jet setters. Instead he was spending most of his time in a regular nine to five job as an art therapist at the Children's Treatment Center. As with most of his endeavors, the program he helped develop was hailed as the most successful in the state, the children responded to him and the staff loved him. What was more important was that he had never felt so good about himself or his work and was having the time of his life. He had found his happily ever after.

Resplendent in tuxedos, Raleigh Elliott and Peter, holding a garment bag over his shoulder, stood in the center of the foyer, turning slowly around admiring the murals and pointing out details to each other.

The federal agents were on a special assignment from the F.B.I. (Female Burke Instructions) to capture, by force if necessary, one Neal Caffery and deliver him to a charity dinner, arranged by Elizabeth, to celebrate the completion of the work where unknown to the artist, he was the guest of honor.

But of course, Neal, being Neal, had known about it all along and sauntered down the hall, smiling as he spotted his two friends.

"I hope that's the appropriate tuxedo for the season?" he said to Peter as he was handed the garment bag.

"The appropriate tuxedo, listen to him," Peter said to Raleigh. "Everyone I know rents these things from some guy with a mustache and a tape measure round his neck who gives you the least he can get away with for the most money and this guy owns enough of them that he has appropriate and inappropriate monkey suits."

"Well?"

"Don't worry Fred Astaire, June picked it out. Just hurry up and change. Haversham's waiting in the limo and El will have our heads if we're late," Peter said. "You know, even the Director of the F.B.I. himself is supposed to be there as well as the Governor. How El talked them into coming to this shindig I will never know."

"She didn't have to talk them into anything, Peter," said Raleigh. "I can't believe it, at a thousand dollar donation to the children's treatment center, a ticket, we had to double the size of the venue twice and we still are sold out. All these people are paying top dollar just to come to honor Neal and his work. What do you have to say about that?"

Neal Caffery, the world renowned artist, art consultant, philanthropist and humanitarian graced them with the full force of his unabashed smile. "Well, guys, I guess they think I'm worth it and I couldn't agree more."

Peter wrapped his free arm around Neal's shoulders and gently squeezed, "So do I, buddy, so do I."

The End

Thank you for reading and your generosity in reviewing this story.

A/N: This story does not reflect in any way the manner in which those who are confined at state mental institutions are treated or the professional medical and psychiatric personnel who are entrusted with their care nor does it depict any of the patients who are being treated in the facility or any of the conditions from which they suffer.

Victor Trent existed and he did the work mentioned. The murals exist and are in danger of being lost for the reasons stated in the story. The story of Rip Van Winkle is just one of the tales depicted, chosen because it is set in the Hudson Valley in the state of New York. The Psychiatric Clinic, which includes a children's hospital also exists and it does share grounds with an institute housing some convicts suffering from mental disorders who have volunteered to undergo experimental drug therapies. There are tunnels that connect all the buildings. Everything else written about the place is total fiction. As to Mark, I've met children like Mark at such a hospital as this, who have been so brutally abused by the people who bore them (I can't call them parents or I'd dishonor my own) they've suffered permanent disfigurement and brain damage.


End file.
